Shadows Fill the Empty
by core-example
Summary: He doesn't even know if she's in trouble, but if she is, it's entirely his fault. Eventual Sherlolly.


**_Author's note:_**okay so hi, I'm new. Trying my hand at fanfic so yeah. I know there's a lot of Sherlock saving Molly fics, but I'm not gonna apologise for another cause I'm totally hooked on them. Reviews are appreciated.

* * *

Molly sighed a smile, pulling her latex gloves off and throwing them in the bin, rubbing a hand over her eyes. It was early still, for her, just after midnight, and delightfully, she already had the results setting for the morning. Well, a couple of hours she supposed.

The morgue was deserted, the pathologist being the only living person in the dimly lit room. She zipped the body bag back up quickly, eager to get out of there as soon as possible and _actually _be in bed before four. It's not that Molly disliked her job; she genuinely loved it. But it did get a bit taxing when you aided an eccentric consulting detective that only seemed to sleep once a fortnight.

She cast a sweeping glance behind her by habit, hand poised over the light switch. She was about to turn when she caught something out of the corner of her eye, and instantly she whipped around. Her brow creased on its own accord and she remained still for several rather tense seconds, before realizing how ridiculous she was being and shaking her head. She was too paranoid for her own good. Without further thought on the matter (though it lurked in the back of her mind), she flicked the switch and strode out, idly wondering if the chip shop would still be open.

Molly turned the corner, back tracking slightly as she headed for the locker room, remembering that she'd been forced to abandon her phone due to Sherlock's incessant texts. It wasn't that she didn't like him texting her - of course she did. But when she was trying to get the results he asked for every five minutes, along with suggestions of how she could better her method, she'd only been so hesitant to put if away.

Reaching the locker room in what she considered record time (she _really_ wanted those chips), she stalked over to her locker and unlocked it, her thin smile morphing into a frown when it wasn't there. Molly paused as the lights to the other side of the room flickered and then went off, casting a gloomy shadow across the room. She shook it off, convincing herself the lights were automated. They weren't, but still. She checked between her files, in the pocket of the cardigan she kept there, and even went as far as lifting every file up and checking beneath them, even though she knew damn well it couldn't possibly be there. She put everything back in, her face a picture of confusion. The only logical explanation was that she'd been robbed. What else could it be?

"Looking for something, sweetheart?" A voice said seemingly out of nowhere. Molly whipped round, her back making a bang as she pressed herself to the locker, eyes wide and heart beating erratically. The voice was cold, and it made a shiver run down her spine. Any words clogged in her throat, and she found it difficult to swallow.

A chuckle emanated from the shadows, and his (clearly male) footsteps echoed as a figure emerged, not quite far enough to make out a face. "Don't worry, I've been looking after it for you. Even answered your texts. But you don't mind, do you." He didn't phrase it as a question. She tried to pinpoint his accent, but with the blood pumping in her ears, She found it impossible to think, never mind recall where she had heard it before.

The man chuckled again, "For a genius he's not all that clever, is he? Oh, well. It'll only make the game more fun."

"You leave him alone." Her voice came out of nowhere, and although she surprised herself, she couldn't help but be proud at how strong it came out and how it didn't shake and betray her fear.

Because let's face it, she was completely terrified.

"Ooh, well, little Miss Hooper does have a spine." His voice dropped, the deliberate conversational tone becoming darker; more sinister. "But don't you worry. We'll soon fix that."

* * *

It was quiet at 221B. Silent except for the occasional rustling of a page. The two residents sat awake in the living room: one reading, and the other staring at his phone. He wasn't scrolling or reading; he simply stared, unblinking.

"You've been staring at that thing for two and a half hours," John said without even glancing up from his page, "what's so interesting?"

When he didn't receive an answer or any recognition at all for that matter, the doctor sighed and put his book down, leaning forwards curiously. Sherlock's brows were furrowed, eyes staring hard at the screen.

"I'm not sure..." he said in a deliberately slow voice, "there's just... _something_ and that _something_ is not right."

Whatever it was, it was getting to him. That much was obvious.

"Care to elaborate?" John asked carefully, eyebrows raising inquisitively.

Sherlock jumped up into a crouched position on his chair, talking quickly (as per usual) as he scrolled upwards on his phone. "I was texting Molly earlier, four hours and thirty two minutes ago actually, inquiring about the results she was doing for me-"

"More times than necessary."

"-And she was constantly replying up until a point. Naturally, I thought nothing about it at the time. Perhaps her phone ran out of battery, or she was inclined to put it away, the latter being more likely of course, because Molly does not indulge in silly little games or social networking, meaning she'd have no other reason to be on her phone." Sherlock continued as if John had never spoke. "Then, just over an hour later, I got a text."

"So?" John pressed, not really getting it, "She probably went on a break."

"Yes, that's what I thought, but then the replies kept on coming, not nearly as intervalled as usual when she's working. Not only that, but she didn't sound like herself-"

"And by that you mean you don't think it was her."

"She commented twice that the bodies stunk; four times that she couldn't wait to get home; and _seven_ times that she hated her job. She loves her job." Sherlock clarified in recompense to John's blank look.

"Everybody has bad days, Sherlock." he said, being the voice of reason even though something being wrong was becoming very apparent.

Sherlock scoffed, "Molly Hooper doesn't have a bad word to say about anyone, particularly her job." He trailed off, his eyes becoming glazed as he thought, his mind humming with frenzied activity.

It was interesting to watch. The pinching of his brows, the silent murmur of his lips, the way his hands turned stark white as they curled into fists. Sherlock was concerned. More than that, actually - he was worried. Worried for the woman he pretended not to care about. It was a obvious to John. That he did care, he meant. It was in the stolen glances across the lab when he thought no one was watching. In the way his eyes lit up when her name flashed up on his phone and the way he replied just that bit quicker.

He knew, of course. The looks he gave her were exactly the same he found himself giving Mary on more than one occasion.

John had been so immersed in his own thoughts, he hadn't noticed that Sherlock had donned his coat and scarf and was already half way to the door.

"Er- where are you going?" He asked, getting up himself.

"St. Barts, of course." Sherlock said as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"It's one o'clock in the bloody morning." John was already reaching for his coat.

"You can tell the time, fantastic. No need to be so rude about it, though. What did it do to you?"

He was about to retaliate when he thought better of it. There was no stopping him now. "Alright," he conceded, stuffing his arms through the sleeves, "let's go."

Sherlock simply smirked behind him, running down the stairs and into the frigid air of the night, coat billowing behind him. His smile slipped as he hailed a cab, though, face becoming stony.

His stomach refused to settle as he clambered in, John following suit and giving the destination. Sherlock turned his face to gaze out the window, palms more sweaty than he would have liked.

This just didn't happen to him. He didn't get nervous; he didn't get worried - especially over another human being.

Then why was his chest constricted? His breathing slightly laboured?

He knew why, of course, he just couldn't admit it to himself.

Molly was in trouble, and somehow, it was his fault.


End file.
